


i will go there (and back again)

by never_going_home



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cancer, Disabled Character, Disabled Character of Color, Gen, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, Self-Harm, aka thorin is an assuming twat, but this is a, i enjoy writing this so screw you, it pains me to say this, mmmm she's not in a fun place, some racism/specisim and heternormavity n stuff, thanks i hate it, this is kinda a processing fic for me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:47:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28645458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/never_going_home/pseuds/never_going_home
Summary: Quinn isn’t special. Not in the way heroes are, with some secret power or heritage or destiny revealed, but completely and utterly... ordinary. She isn’t a dancer. She isn’t a musician, or an artist. She has no hidden fate lying in store for her. No prophet speaks of great deeds she will one day perform, no superhuman strength or prowess or god on her shoulder to come to her rescue when she needs it most. She simply possesses no defining talent, save for having the stubbornness to farm sheep in rural Queensland, where it hasn’t rained since 2014.She’s also dying. Ten months, the doctors said, twelve, if you’re lucky, then... boom, she would be gone. Or not boom, but a slow, miserable ending, unable to move or speak or have conscious thought...Anyway.When fourteen motherfucking strangers show up in her house at three in the morning, she’s slightly pissed. Only slightly, though, because the rest of her capacity of emotion is taken up by pants-wetting fear. Quinn's scared of death, of course she’s scared of death, but never in a hundred thousand years did she think it would be delivered like this.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 15





	1. I - An Invasion of House and Home

**Author's Note:**

> this deals rather heavily with the repurcussions and effects of terminal cancer on somebody. i have never had cancer, thank god, but my cousin did died, so I'm basing Quinn's experiences off his and off researching I'm doing. also, I'm not of japanese or maori descent, so if you see something that you think's incorrect, please don't hesitate to let me know. Quinn's quite cut off from her dad's culture, and a bit from her mum's culture, though less so.

Sixty years from when this story takes place ( _if_ this story takes place), two wizards, one in many colours, one in traveller’s grey, were fighting. Two bolts of pure energy and magic met mid-air, and something in the fabric of the universe went _twang._ The moment froze. A hole in reality, space and time opened up in front two gates, _ten thousand_ years apart. One was white, and picketed, leading to a vibrant garden and a door, dark green and round as a porthole, nestled under the hill. The other’s fencing was constructed like it would be more suited to separating paddocks, with a squat brick house roofed with corrugated iron at the end of a winding road. There was no garden; it was too dry for that. The nearest thing to vegetation was the dead grass, grey and scrubby, or the spindly eucalypts framing smoky mountains. The wizard in traveller’s grey spoke to the owner of the first and got invited round for tea on Wednesday.

On the appointed night at the appointed time, he went to unlatch the gate of Bag End, and ended up in front of the second, fondly called Floating Teeth. And because he was a wizard and wizards are naturally curious, he let himself in and knocked on the door.

*

(This is the shire of Apricot. Within it is the small town of Hell's Basin, so named because it's hot as hell and just as dry, and, uh, it’s in a basin. Not much ever happens. Not much grows here, either, and what does is as tough and hard as the land it comes from.

 _This_ is the township of Hell's Basin, population five-hundred and ten.)

The voice of the 9News reporter droned on in the background as Quinn lay on the couch, listlessly running her finger over the cracked screen of her phone while Angel chattered.

 _“…We’ll be at the hospital tomorrow, won’t we, Sid? Sid? Sidney!”_ Sid’s dreadlocks appeared suddenly in view.

_“Huh?”_

_“I said, we’ll be at the hospital tomorrow for Quinn’s chemo, won’t we?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Hey Quinn, there’s a plane taking off. Wanna see it?”_ asked Angel, flipping the camera and pointing it at the window of the airport terminal just in time to see the aircraft lift off. Quinn grinned. She had flown never but once, and _that_ had been an experience she would very much like to forget, but still her childhood obsession with aircraft remained, the model planes from childhood hanging crookedly from her bedroom ceiling the proof of it.

“Thanks, Jelly.”

 _“No problem. You alright to drive yourself? Did you get Davo to fix the radio?”_ The closest hospital was in Apricot, a town some two hours away from Hell’s Basin, and suicidal kangeroos hopping across the road were a common occurrence, as was the large patches of no reception, with no way of contact but for the emergency walkie-talkies in the car. Quinn’s childhood mate, Clancy, had died when he hit a roo on his quad bike one night not two years ago, before her cancer had come back. The thing had flipped and pinned him, leaving him to a slow, agonising death, with no way to call for help and no way to make his suffering end. She had found him early the next morning. He had been dead, almost, and his one hand that wasn’t pinned had been so very, very cold. (They had made her let go, the bastards, they had _made her let go_ and he had died without anyone with him, alone, in a sanitised hospital bed with only the beeping machines to keep him company, and she hated them for it-)

She could see his grave from the window, too, beneath the old waratah some ways behind her house. He’d wanted to be buried on Quinn’s land, should he ever die, buried at a cross-roads to prevent him from rising again, he’d written on a sticky note on his desk, as if he’d known it would happen. And die he did.

(Angel’s fear was not unfounded.)

“Yeah. Look, I’m gonna go for a walk, I’ll call you-” the phone died. Quinn threw it down beside her in annoyance, then grabbed it and fell off the couch, rolling her way over to the doorway, because standing up was over-rated anyway. When she reached it, she used the railings in the hallway to pull herself up off the floor, then stalked into the kitchen, shoving the charger into her phone. Nothing happened. Quinn frowned, jostling the cable in the wall. Her phone’s screen remained black. Groaning, she unplugged the entire charger and moved along to where the toaster was plugged in. Still it refused to charge. Quinn sneered at the bits of silver wire exposed at the head of the cable. Stupid piece of shit. Goddamnit, she’d only had this charger for two years, and if a certain dog of hers hadn’t decided to chew on it, it would still be whole.

She turned, glaring at Blackie, her kelpie-lab cross. He wagged his tail hopefully, glancing from her face back to his recently-filled food bowl, which was now empty. Bastard couldn’t round up a flock to save his life, much less do anything required of a sheep-dog, but she’d admit, very quietly, deep within herself in case anybody, like her conscious, heard, that she had a certain soft spot for him.

“Idiot dog,” she told him bluntly as she grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it. Blackie looked up at her with a beseeching expression on his face. _“No,_ Blackie, you’re not getting any more to eat.” She ruffled his ears, and he licked her hand, for which he received a tap on the nose. Quinn stuck the apple in her mouth, then picked up her crutches from where they leaned against the bench, trying to whistle ineffectually around the piece of fruit.

“‘A’ie, ung!” she said, by which she meant to call the dog. He seemed to understand her anyway, and went bounding away to the back door where the ramp was, wagging his tail excitedly. Quinn thought for a moment, then took one arm out of the crutch again, grappling for a pen and paper on the bench.

 _Off walking,_ she scrawled. _Down at Clancy Becker’s grave. Give me a shout if you arrive. -Quinn._

Out of habit, she glanced up at the clock. It read four past two a.m., but she didn’t mind. Little sleep would come to her on the night before chemo. Hah! It sounded like some Dickens parody. _‘Twas the night before chemo when Quinn left the house…_

Wait. That wasn’t Dickens. Shaking her head at her own foolishness, Quinn pulled on her heavy coat, lined with sheepskin, put on a head-torch and slipped out the back door, twisting the note round the handle as she went. The fat, pale moon sat heavy in the sky, casting cold, wild whiteness over the ground where the dark shadows didn’t pool and throwing the grey grass into stark relief. The more artificial light of her head-torch overlayed it, seeming somehow invasive as she sought to avoid rabbit holes and even the occasional hibernating snake, which she supposed was a small price to pay for encroaching on this desolate beauty.

 _“Mate,”_ she said as she reached the waratah and the grave. It _was_ at a crossroads, technically, if two sheeptracks could be called a crossroad, but Quinn liked to think that Clancy would’ve seen the humour in it. She eased her way to the ground so that she was facing the stone, stretching out her legs and placing the crutches beside her. “Got another round of palliative chemo tomorrow. I reckon it’ll be my last though. Thought you might like to know I’m so fuc-” she hesitated. It seemed wrong to swear here, in this sacred, sanctioned place. “-So _goddamn_ sick of it.” She sighed and took a bite of the apple, staring up at the brilliant band of the Milky Way stretching far overhead. “Don’t know what good they think it’s gunna do, anyway. Forgot to tell you, they reckon I’m due to kick the bucket in ten months or so. How’d I forget that, mate? How? Is it the bloody cancer? Or am I just a bad friend?” She snorted through her nose. God, if anyone saw her down here, heard her talking to a dead man’s tombstone, they’d think her mad. _God,_ some days Quinn thought _herself_ mad, which was never a good thing.

“Doctors said I might have to move into the hospice soon. I don’t want to. If I die – when I die, I want it to be here, mate. But I’ll still put up a fight, like I always did. Angel wants to talk about palliative care here at home, so go her.” She sighed. Cicadas chirped in the sudden silence.

“Gee, not much of a talker anymore, are you? Silent as -heh- the grave, you are tonight.” There was more hush, then a sound like a choked sob. “I don’t _want_ to die, Clance. _I don’t want to._ ” After a while, her tears subsided, and she kicked the headstone gently. “Still, I s’spose it can’t be helped, you and me. Doesn’t stop me from missin’ ya though, mate.” Blackie began to bark at something, and Quinn rose, wiping her eyes. “Gotta go, Clance. See ya in kingdom come, I guess. Dog, _shut up._ ”

The automatic deck light flicked on as she swung open the door, ripping the note away and chucking it onto the table. Blackie barked again, this time sounding more urgent, running to the door she’d just come through. Someone knocked.

“Yeah, hang on, I’m coming,” she called out, lifting her coat back onto the hook. There was another loud _rata-tat-tat_. Quinn rubbed her hands together in delighted anticipation as she advanced on the door. Tiny backwater town though it may have been, Hell's Basin still managed to have two 24/7 fast-food places, Macca’s and a place that nobody knew the name of that did really good Mexican, both of which delivered to the more rural properties outside the township, like Floating Teeth. Perhaps it was her taco delivery, although it was weird that Kev, the late night guy, had come to this door instead of the side-door as he usually did. Maybe there was a snake or something.

It wasn’t Kev. And, clearly, thought part of her mind, there wasn’t a snake, either.

Instead, the person outside was taller than anyone she’d ever seen. _Ever._ He was also dressed like he was the god of wizards. Staff? Check. Pointy hat? Check. Robes? Check. Beard and incredibly bushy eyebrows? Yet another check. He even had a _pipe._

“…Are you the taco man?” the eyebrows contracted, looking for all the world like there was a localised storm over the stranger’s eyes. He said something that sounded like it ended in a question mark. Quinn frowned. She’d heard plenty of different languages throughout town and on the telly when she was bored and flicking through the news in other languages, but this sounded nothing like she’d ever heard. It was harsh and slightly guttural, but it also sounded vaguely… Swedish. But not really.

“What?” he repeated the same string of syllables, then, to her horror, touched her on the forehead with his stick.

“What the fu-” she began, but the man spoke again in his weird pseudo-Swedish. To Quinn, it felt like she had been flipping through channels of static and had suddenly chanced upon one that was fully operational. Once more, he repeated his words, and Quinn realised with rising dread that she _knew what they meant._

“You understand me?” He asked.

“Yeah, mate. Look, d’you have the tacos or not? Is Kev on leave or something? Why's he not here?”

“Where is this?”

“Hell’s Basin, Rural Queensland. Floating Teeth Sheep Property, which happens to be my house, if you want to get more specific. Now, you either have my food, which is great, or you don’t, which means I call the police. Got it?” she squinted up into his face. He looked almost like that actor, Ian, whatshisface, Mackellen, except he was inhumanely tall. _Motherfucker?_

“Perhaps not what I expected, but it shall do,” he said, as if _that_ had anything to do with answering her question.

“What?”

“May I enter your home?”

“Like hell!”

“Thank you.” The man pushed past. Quinn backed slowly out the door, then turned to sprint (or, more likely, hobble) up the public road until she reached the next house, or, failing that, got as far away from here as was fucking possible, and ran straight into a solid wall of muscle instead. Yeah, this was her luck.

“Dwalin,” it spake, bowing. “At yer service.” It – or he – sounded distinctly Scottish.

“...Thanks?” The man was about as tall as Sidney, but much broader. He towered over her, and she felt rather indignant about it.

“I said _thank you,_ not _please come in,_ ” she muttered, trying to ignore the hysterical urge to scream and cry. As she attempted to yank her coat back off the hook, she heard Taco Man greet the newcomer somewhere behind her.

“Ye look like an orc,” he told her, then, leaving her with _that_ bafflingly cryptic reply, pushed past her.

“The hell does that even mean? The _hell does that-_ hey, no, wait, I’m _talking to you-”_ she gave the jacket another vicious tug, gritting her teeth.

“Would you like some help with that, lassie?”

Oh, _great_. Quinn nodded, not even surprised that there were more random strangers coming to her house at quarter to three in the morning at this point.

The man who pulled it off was nearer her own height, his red coat, white hair and benevolent expression making him look for all the world like Santa.

“Balin, at your service.”

“Ta.” Quinn click-clacked out of the door at a top-speed shuffle, making it past the slope of her sort-of driveway that was two-and-a-half kilometres long before she realised that she didn’t have her head-torch, or even one of the pocket radios. She swore, heading back up the slope, and, as she rounded the corner of the fence and pushed back through the gate, she saw, with immense irritation and no small amount of fear, two figures waited at the door.

“...Could be the wrong place,” said one doubtfully.

“It’s so _dry,_ Fíli! Where did all those hills go?”

“How about we ask her?”

“Who?” said the one who had been bemoaning the lack of hills. Which was weird, because she lived in a valley. Surrounded by literal mountains. Like, the Great Dividing Range, literal mountains. Quinn went back through the door, and the blond one she presumed to be Fíli kicked the other in the shin and jerked his head towards her.

 _“Her,”_ he hissed, then bowed deeply. “Excuse me, miss, but is this the wrong house? Only, you see, the Mark’s on the door.”

“Yes this is the wrong house I don’t know what mark you're talking about have a good night bye.” She slammed the door, but not quickly enough. The brunet stuck his foot just before it closed, forcing it open, and Taco Man called out that it was all right, she could let them in, it was perfectly safe. When they burdened her with _real life actual swords,_ she was greatly tempted to go up to him and give him the swords mockingly, saying _oh yes, perfectly safe._ She could see it now, feel the sweet taste of righteous, sarcastic justice, but she fought the impulse, instead placing the weapons down as gently as she could and fleeing to her bedroom. The voices of the newcomers – the invaders, that’s were they were, the effing _invaders –_ drifted through the kitchen doorway just metres away from where she stood, seeming to somehow mock her as she slammed her own shut.

Panic and adrenaline gripped her as she sagged against the door, breathing raggedly, heart pounding. God. _God._ There were four of them already-!

 _And only one of us,_ said a snide little voice in the back of her head that Quin liked to call The Voice of Fucking Her Over. She pulled her penknife out the right pocket of her jeans and set the knife to the little divet of flesh on the inside of her wrist where her forearm joined with her hand. She sliced, watching blood well up in little beads, biting her lip until it too bled. She pushed up her sleeve a bit, then cut into her skin twice more, running a nail over the edges of the incisions, letting the pain ground her. The pain… the pain was better than the fear, even if there was a strange kind of terror inherent in cutting herself open in the dark. She reached up with the hand she clenched the handle of the knife in, flicking the switch with her pinky finger. Quinn looked blankly at the wall, seeing nothing, but her mind was… clearer, especially with the light. What had she heard one of the invaders in the next room say, even if it had probably been a joke? _Nice and dark, I see!_ And one had replied, the old one, Balin, _dark for dark business, my lad._

Almost of her own volition, her gaze slid upwards from the white wooden wall to the tiny square window that hadn’t been opened for as long as she could remember. Certainly not in her lifetime. It was small and incredibly high up, because her family home was fuckin’ _weird_ and all the rooms were at least four meters tall. But maybe if she stood on the chest-of-drawers that graced the centre of the wall...

Maybe she could get out.

The chest-of-drawers proved to be an unexpected difficulty, which Quinn cursed herself for not realising. But, eventually, she managed to scramble up onto the top, reaching over and grabbing her crutches from her bed.

“Aaaaannddd… the window,” she muttered to herself thoughtfully, trying to in. She reached up for the old turning-latch, frowning when her fingers only just brushed the sill. Quinn glanced at her bed, sucking the tangy blood off her lip. Then, leaving one foot and one crutch on the chest, she reached out with the other, though the second crutch stayed behind, resting it on the balled corner of her iron bedhead. She breathed in deeply, then surged upwards, hanging onto the latch as though it were a life-line. She twisted it, but the wretched thing remained obstinately shut. Quinn stepped back into the chest of drawers, scowling impressively. Already her legs were shaking with exhaustion, because cancer was a little bitch, but she held on resolutely. She _would not let go,_ because letting go… letting go…

It meant you had given up, and by _god_ was she not going to give up. She had let go of Clancy, and against her will she had been forced to let go of her life, but _by god_ she would not let go of this stupid little chance to escape these stupid little men that had broken into her home and probably wanted to rape her and kill her.

Quinn stepped back onto the bedhead, this time bringing her leg up in front her to brace her foot on the wall. She yanked hard, not even registering that she’d somehow managed to pull the latch _off_ until she was falling. She didn’t even have time to shout before her head smashed against the corner of the chest, didn’t even have time to scream before everything went black.

*

Quinn awoke to complete and utter, beautiful, and above all, totally unnerving silence. She swallowed, opening her eyes, and found herself staring at the aged ceiling of her bedroom. She looked at it for a moment, utterly content to lie... on the floor. She was lying on the floor, for some reason. Quinn screwed her nose up as she turned her head to regard her surroundings. She was spreadeagled on the ground, lying partly under her bed, her shoulder pressed against the chest-of-drawers, her legs folded uncomfortably beneath her. She reached up, grabbing the lip of the bedstead and sliding herself out. Her head throbbed painfully, and when she touched not-so-careful fingers to her temple, the source of the grievance, they came away sticky with blood.

Ice. She needed ice. And, like, a towel, or a cloth or something. Stupid rutting chest-of-draws had torn her good beanie, too, because of _course_ it had. She was just loitering in the shadows of her doorway, trying to see into the kitchen, when someone spoke.

“He is here.” Quinn almost jumped out of her skin, knocking over the random urn that was sitting in the hallway. It fell to the ground with a heavy thump, cracking and splintering, but she didn’t care. She didn’t recognise the person who had spoken, with his magnificent height and grey beard and weird-ass pointy hat, even though thinking each slow thought was an effort and a half, which meant the odd, jumbled memories were true, and there were some random people who had broken into her house. Which had been the reason she’d ended up unconscious on the floor, because… because she’d been trying to escape out the window. Right. _Right._

Fuck.

“Did something just smash?” someone asked. Quinn froze like a deer in headlights. Fuck fuck fuck. Motherfucker. Mcfucking piece of fucking _fuck._

Taco Man strode through to where the hallway fed into the foyer, peering at Quinn, who was still standing amidst shards of pottery, staring.

“Are you quite alright?” he asked with what she imagined to be grandfatherly concern.

“Go fuck yourself,” she breathed, then mentally congratulated herself on being able to form cognitive speech. The old man drew those thunderous brows together, but didn’t comment on her use of language.

“Our final guest has arrived,” he said instead, “and he is rather important. I think you should be there to greet him.”

“Fuck off,” Quinn replied, but stalked over to the door with ad much dignity as she could muster anyway, throwing it open.

No. Fuck. This had been a bad idea. This had been a _very fucking bad idea._

The guy standing silhouetted in the doorway – because he was a drama queen, apparently – was... huge. Just as tall and broad as the thing that called himself Dwalin, if not more so, and fuck, but it was terrifying, particularly because she was a only a meter seventy and as thin as a rake in comparison, although growing up she’d been considerably bulky in comparison to other children. But- holy fuckerdoodles, _two_ of her could stand behind this dude and still not bbe seen. He was quite attractive, too, she supposed, in an absent way, but then he opened his mouth and she decided she could give zero fucks.

“Gandalf,” he said in a deep voice that was not unpleasant, presumably as a greeting to someone. Quinn looked around, because _who the fuck was Gandalf?_ , and saw Taco Man nod his head. “I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice. I wouldn't have found it at all, had it not been for that mark on the door.” He undid his cloak – And the motherfucker was wearing a _cloak,_ because apparently she was hosting a ren fair – with unbridled arrogance, a slight smirk gracing his face.

“Mark?” Quinn interrupted, touching the side of her head again and wincing as the pain came roaring back. It was completely tactless, but fuck it, she _deserved_ some tactlessness. “Why does everyone keep banging on about this mark? I know what my bloody door looks like, thanks very much.”

“I put it there myself in the moments before we met,” Gandalf admitted. He paused for a moment, trying to ignore the death glare Quinn was sending his way. “Mistress – forgive me for not knowing your name -"

“Quinnan. Uh, Quinnan Ito.” Which was, technically, correct, but also not, because in actuality her full name was Quinnan Ito-Pihopa, because her parents were cool and believed in equal marriage and, like their daughter, or perhaps their daughter like them, they too had hyphenated surnames. But still. Precautions.

“Mistress-”

_“Miss.”_

“-Miss Ito,” he continued smoothly, “allow me to introduce the leader of our Company, Thorin Oakenshield.” Oakenshield stared at her. Quinn stared back, much more aggressively. This went on for several seconds before he narrowed his eyes slightly and began to pace in a circle around her, looking her up and down, which didn’t make her feel threatened at _all_. This six-foot something guy, just circling her like a shark or something was making her feel incredibly uncomfortably? _Nah,_ no worries, mate.

“So, this is the burglar,” he said softly as he looked up at Taco Man. He continued, his voice gaining volume and weight, somehow becoming even deeper. “She is a cripple, Gandalf. And she bears the features of an orc.” Quinn hesitated, trying to decide what to say.

“Nice to fucking meet you too, bitch.” Yes, that sounded about right. “And I’m not a cripple, goddamnit, I need crutches, but that doesn’t matter, because you’re clearly an ableist piece of shit. Also,” she added, a nasty gleam in her eye, “They double as something to hit people calling me derogatory names with. I’m Quinn, by the way. Hi. Please leave my goddamn house as soon as possible. And will people please stop saying I look like an orc, for the love of fucking God!” Thorin Oakenshield, who had stopped in front of her, looked taken aback at this, but he recovered himself quick enough.

“I do not pretend to understand many of your words, woman, although I can tell you that mine are true to my understanding. I apologise for calling you an orc, for it is clear to me now that you must be a half-breed. I have heard tales of couplings between Easterlings and the goblins of Mordor, and I see that you must be the result of such a wretched union. Now tell me, do you have a brother or a father I may speak with? Preferably, they are to be human. I heard you call yourself a _miss,_ so you are not married, and thus I cannot speak to your husband, so one of the two I mentioned must do.”

Throughout all of this, Quinn had been at turns angry and shocked, but _this, this_ was the cherry on top of the motherfucking cake. She gazed into his bearded face for a moment, then jerked her arm out of the crutch and slapped him with all her might. It was like hitting rock. Still, she couldn’t decide what was more terrifying, the fact that when she’d glanced behind her, the rest of the people (which there were many more of, fuck, _fuck)_ had drawn all manner of weapons, or that when she looked into his cool blue eyes, he _hadn’t even blinked._

Quinn knew she wasn’t as strong as she had been in the rare times of recession. Hell, even riding around on the bike for an hour to check on the sheep tired her out. Her arms looked kind of like limp strands of spaghetti now. She needed crutches to stand or walk for any period of time and napped most of the day. But _still._ He hadn’t flinched, hadn’t even _effing blinked_ when she smacked him across the face.

Thorin Oakenshield shook his head minutely, and Quinn’s rage came back at full force. If he was trying to _placate_ her- but then she heard the whisper of steel sliding on leather, and when she checked behind, there wasn’t a blade to be seen.

“I am sorry if I have offended,” he said, speaking carefully as though he might upset her, “although I am not sure why, or how.” The anger ebbed a little, allowing Quinn to speak.

“You want me to tell you, then?” she spat. Oakenshield inclined his head.

“If it would please you to do so.” Quinn ignored this.

“First off, who the goddamn _hell_ refers to Asian people as Easterlings? Who the hell does that? Fucking racists, that’s who. And _orc?_ That’s two of you who said that, and mate, let’s just get this clear right now, this isn’t frickin’ fantasy land shit or something. My dad is Māori, alright? _Alright?_ Not some-” she gestured wildly with the arm she’d slapped him with, “-not some kind of _monster._ And you know what? I might be married. I might be married to a woman. Or a person that doesn’t identify as male, anyway,” she added, thinking of Sidney. “I might have two mums, for all you know. I don’t, and I’m not, but I fuckin’ _might.”_

“Is that all?” Quinn breathed sharply through her nose.

“No. _If you call me woman again, then I will cut your dick off with a blunt kitchen knife, so help me Lord.”_ She looked at him again. “And I want you to all leave my house _right now._ ”

Nobody moved.

“Quinnan,” Gandalf said in a soothing tone. “These dwarves have come a long way. They need your help.” Dwarves, huh? None of these guys were under six fucking feet, but whatever.

“Here’s twenty cents to go ring someone who actually cares,” she said dully, suddenly drained of her ire. “What’s it to me, huh? What’s it to them? They’ve just wasted, what, a few thousand dollars worth of plane ticket fees, huh? Is that my problem? Not really. So, I repeat, _get the fuck out.”_

He didn’t reply, but stood there, glaring at her with the intensity of a thousand suns. Quinn glared right back, her heart pounding. There was utter stillness in the room, although the tension was so thick in the air she’d could’ve cut it with the blunt kitchen knife she’d just threatened this guy with-

 _Oh god she’d just threatened this guy._ Her breathing sped up as her eyes flicked up and down his massive build. _God,_ he could probably snap her neck without even trying, and he was armed to the teeth anyways, and there were thirteen other people behind her, of similar size and who were also walking armouries, and she was stranded, alone, without any way to call for help, and no one would be visiting until tomorrow afternoon, because the deliver guy hadn’t turned up, and they could just rape her and kill her and nobody would ever know-

There was a knock at the back door.

“I’ll just-” she jerked her thumb behind her, putting her arm back onto the crutch. “Um. Yeah. I’ll- yeah.” She scuttled off, opening the door. To her relief, it was Kev, holding a slightly soggy-looking paper bag with the name of the Mexican shop written across it.

“G’day, Quinn,” he said warmly.

“G’day, Kev.” She took the bag, her hand shaking. Whether it was from fear or her shitty fine motor skills that were steadily growing worse each day, she didn’t know.

“You alright, Quinn?” Kev asked, looking worried. “You’re looking a bit pale.”

“All good, mate.” Maybe, just _maybe_ she could hitch a ride with him to the police station, and these guys wouldn’t be able to chase after her, because she hadn’t heard a car. Of course, her keys were sitting in plain view in the doohickie bowl behind her, and then they could just steal hers...

“I heard from Ushani who heard from Nicky who heard from Gina who heard from the new guy at the servo who’s mates with one of the girls that work at the nursing home who heard from your mum that you got chemo tomorrow at the hospital.” Quinn grinned, despite herself. Although her mum had early onset dementia, she religiously kept a diary of when all of her daughter’s appointments were. God, but her mum was great. Her dad was too, of course, particularly when he showed up during the chemo with fancy chocolates, but her mum was on another level. Her mum was fucking _stellar._

“Yeah, mate. Thought I fancied some late-night tacos from your place to steel myself and all that. How’s the T going? Did you get more like you wanted?”

“Yeah, it came in yesterday.”

“Nice.” Kev frowned, peering over her shoulder.

“You got someone over?” he asked, then lowered his voice. “Who’re they, Quinn? Don’t think I’ve seen them round here before. Christ, they look fierce.”

“Some mates of Angel’s,” she answered, hoping that her terror and panic would show on her face, and that Kev would see through her blatant lie.

“Yeah, right. You sure you’re alright?” Quinn shrugged.

“I mean, who can say, right?”

“…Right. Well, I’m off. Hope the chemo goes well. Grandad says good luck.”

“Thanks, Kev. Hope your T goes well, too. Sid sends their well-wishes.” At this, Kev blushed.

“They do?” Quinn winked at him.

“Sure thing, mate. Watch out for roos.”

“Will do.”

“Hooroo, Kev.”

“Hooroo, Quinn.” He walked off, glancing over his shoulder worriedly. She gave him a thumbs up. As soon as he’d turned the corner, Oakenshield rounded on her.

“Who was that?” he demanded.

“The delivery guy.”

“Why did you call him here?”

“Because I wanted some food, you prick!”

“Why did you lie to him about who we were?” he asked in the same, dreadful voice.

“Because I was scared you were going to kill me or some shit if I told him the truth!” She hadn’t meant to say it. _She hadn’t meant to-_ Oakenshield blinked and took a step back.

“You… truly thought that?” he said, sounding surprised. Quinn squeezed the rolled-up takeaway bag so tightly that it ripped slightly beneath her nails, hearing Kev rev up his engine.

“Look at it from my perspective,” she said, willing her voice not to shake. “I’m a young woman with Asian and Māori heritage. That means I’m foreign. To a lot of people, it makes me a barbarian. Kev out there? Him and his grandad are some of the only people in this town who didn’t immediately judge me and my family based on our skin colour, even though we've lived here longer than any other settlers. I am, as you say, a cripple. I can barely walk without my crutches. I am out here, on my property, alone, and it’s four o’clock in the morning. You could’ve asked almost anyone in Hell's Basin, and they would’ve told you that my housemates are off in Perth and aren’t home ‘til tomorrow. There are fourteen strangers, all armed, who have just broken into my house, surrounding me. I have no way of contacting anyone. The list goes on.”

“We haven’t broken in!” protested someone behind her. Quinn glanced at him, rifling through names. Blond, with a small, tidy beard, had the brunet who was almost his brother hanging off his arm, looking like a lost puppy. Had actually been quite polite to her. _Fíli._

“Do I know you? Any of you? Did I invite you in, or did that bastard-” she pointed at Gandalf, “-just waltz in here like he owned the place, and you all followed after?” There was silence. “Yeah,” Quinn said. “That’s what I thought. No, seriously, what else was I meant to think? That you wanted me to go on some sort of adventure with you? Or that you’d rape me and kill me and drive off before morning comes?”

“Actually,” replied Gandalf thoughtfully, “your estimate isn’t so far off the mark.” Quinn’s eyes widened, and she half-turned, one hand on the door handle. She swallowed hard, nodding her head a few times.

“God help me,” she muttered, and ran off into the night.


	2. II - In Which They Are Not Going to Kill Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Whatever happens, I’m not stealing back the mountain,” she told him, though she looked at the dwarves as she spoke. “Reason being, I highly doubt it would fit in my pocket.” There were a few grins here and there, but Oakenshield remained unmoved, and even scowled a bit. Right. “That was a joke,” she added, because this guy seemed like the kind of pissy fucker that would take everything at face value.

Quinn moved as fast as she could, veering sharply to the right and into the thick scrub of the ravine once she got through the house-yard fence. She was fucked. She was so, so fucked. She had the slight advantage of knowing the lay of the land, but it was dark, and she had a stitch on her side, and behind her she could hear the heavy thump of her pursuers’ feet...

Quinn choked down a sob, ducking her head as twigs slashed at her face and caught at her clothes. She’d just made it easier for them, and now she was far more alone than she had been in her house, and she was becoming lost without the light of day to guide her, and _shit,_ she was running through the scrub, heading further and further away from where her neighbours lived, although there was no chance she’d ever reach them, and she was running through scrub and stone and dead grey grass, and there was _nowhere to hide-_

She tripped.

She had been running through scrub and stone and the dead grey grass, and she’d not been looking where she was going, and she’d _tripped_ , and she was rolling, she was falling off the fifteen-meter high ledge she’d birthed a lamb on last spring, and there was an outcrop of granite below her and she was going to die _right here right now-_

Someone caught her arm. Below her, one of her crutches snapped in half. Quinn looked up; her saviour was the one that wore the weird hat. He hauled her up easily, frowning.

“You’re lighter than I expected,” he remarked as she lay panting beside the sheer curving plummet that was the edge of the stone. Slowly, she moved, leaning heavily on her one remaining crutch as she pulled herself up.

“Thanks,” she whispered, because she had manners, then she ducked around him, stumbling away as quick as she dared, not pausing at the guy's surprised shout as began to pursue her. Quinn ran in a wide half-circle to the right again, passed over the top of a hill where the scrub had been cleared a bit, then dropped to her belly, clutching her stick tight to her body as she rolled to one side. Dead stalks of tough grass stabbed into her as she stopped dead beside a few spindly trees, pressing her face into the dirt and hardly daring to breath.

“Lass?” he said as he crested the hill. “Lass, where are you?” Quinn shivered as the wind howled, listening to the mournful cry of the dingoes ride high on the haunting noise and the pathetic bleat of a sheep somewhere in the distance. Apart from that, there was deathly silence.

“Wretched place,” she heard him mutter. “Don’t know why anyone'd live here.” He turned, trudging back up the hill. Quinn breathed out, adrenaline rushing through her. Perhaps she was safe, after all. But she stayed still. It could be a ruse, and he could come back at any moment. She could hear shouting, now. Quinn turned her head slightly, wincing as a sharp pebble dug into her cheek, trying to listen. Something about how she’d disappeared, like magic. Quinn knew she’d been right to stay down, especially when she heard several pairs of boots clumping in her general direction.

“Stop!” ordered a voice she recognised immediately as Oakenshield's. “Do you not think there was a reason she ran from us? She thought we would kill her – or worse.” There were grunts of assent. “Wizard, you find her. Surely you have magic for that, if it is magic she used.” _The fuck?_ Quinn mouthed to herself. Magic? Why the actual goddamn hell were they talking about magic? They were delusional, clearly, because _magic did not exist._

“That is not how magic works,” came an irritated reply. Footsteps crunched towards her right, and in her peripheral vision, Quinn could see a strange light. She bit down hard on her cheek as advanced towards her, but she could not prevent the whimper that escaped her as it shone over her face. Instantly, she was filled with a wave of self-loathing. Be angry, she willed herself, be _angry, be angry!_ She preferred anger over fear, would do so every day, because fear was an all-consuming torrent that would tear her apart if she did not dam it up with anger. Better be angry at this godforsaken world and its godforsaken people who all so richly deserved it than fear it, than second-guess herself and lose everything that made Quinnan Ito-Pihopa _her_ to the sucking, parasitic overwhelm of terror. But the rage would not come, leaving her feeling empty and hollow. And when the rage would not come, the fear would take its place…

“I believe,” said Gandalf ponderously, “that we have found our burglar.”

Quinn yanked herself upright, pressing her back into the tree behind her as she held her crutch before herself. Angel was incredibly interested in medieval re-enactment and had often dragged Quinn and Sid into her practise in the back yard. So, together, they’d learned the basics of sword-work, spear-work, and perhaps most important of all, staff-work. If the rage would not come, then she would force it to, she would pretend and pretend until it took the place of the lie and became real.

It was in the first defensive position Angel had taught them that Quinn held her crutch now, although her legs shook and screamed at her and staying upright was an act of will alone. And Quinn thought: I’m hesitating. I’m being uncertain. And being uncertain only makes the dam crack, and a cracked dam means more fear, and I will _not be afraid-_

She attacked, swinging one end around at the old man’s head and managing to knock off his pointed hat. She tried running but stumbled as her legs finally gave out, and tumbled over and over, landing in a tangled heap in the centre of the knot of... whoever they were. _Whatever_ they were, at any rate. Hands grabbed at her arms, no doubt to restrain her, but she bared her teeth and brought her crutch down upon them, making their owners cry out in pain and shock. Better, she thought wildly, better.

“Don’t fuckin' _touch_ me,” she hissed, and, to their credit, they didn’t. Shakily, she first pulled herself to her knees, then brought one leg in front of her, as though she were a warrior of old, pledging her allegiance. Then, slowly, she set the base of the crutch on the ground, pulling herself to her feet. She was breathing hard, and the area around her diaphragm felt as though it was on fire. She tried to shut out the pain, even though standing made her want to throw up, with the addition of causing her vision focus and un-focus sporadically, which wasn’t particularly pleasant when she was trying to concentrate on fourteen armed _madmen_ trying to hold her hostage, probably.

“She fights well enough,” mused someone behind her, as though she wasn’t _right there_ and lacked functioning ears. God, whoever was behind her was _awful_ at whispering. Did he _want_ her to hear him or something?

“Aye,” another replied, “for a wee babby with no training, mebbe.”

“I’d like to see her with a staff. Or two shortswords, perhaps. She’s lighter on her feet that most of us.”

“Aye, I’ll give her that, at least. She seems smart, too. No use being good if you’re not smart.”

“You’re right as always, brother.”

“I know.”

They- they weren’t going to kill her, Quinn realised. They weren’t going to kill her, not yet, anyway. She might’ve writ off the behatted one saving her as wanting to use her before killing her, or some equally horrific thing, but what had Gandalf just said? _I believe that we have found our burglar._ And now they were talking about… fighting. Or something. Quinn turned sideways, shuffling along until she could see every single person, with Gandalf looming in her peripheral vision.

“I think, perhaps, there has been a misunderstanding,” the apparent wizard announced. Quinn raised her eyebrows, a one arm on the crutch. _Motherfucker,_ she was dizzy. Now that she’d stopped moving, the world was spinning horribly, and her depth perception had gone to absolute shit. _Yay for her._

“Uhuh.” _But,_ she reminded herself, Gandalf had agreed that they were going to use and discard her, hadn’t he? She’d asked and he’d answered calm as could be, as though he’d been remarking on the weather. Bastard.

“When I said that your estimate was not far from the mark, I meant in regard to you suggesting that we are going on an adventure.”

“Oh for _fuck’s sake,”_ Quinn said. Gandalf paused.

“Is there any need for such profanities?” he asked mildly. Quinn goggled at him.

Uh, _yeah?_ You- fuckin’ hell- actually, y’know what? Never mind. Please, by all means, continue.”

So he wove a great tale of dragons and fire and mountains of gold, and of a scattered people and their exiled king and a final push to regain their stolen homeland. And he was really a very good taleteller, considering he was a total loony. Slowly, the anger slunk away, curling itself into a tightly-compacted ball, waiting to strike again.

As Gandalf finished, Quinn became aware of fourteen craggy faces watching her. Her legs ached, so she sat down, kicking them out in front of her as she had at Clancy’s grave.

“That was a lovely story,” she said, and it didn’t escape her notice how several of the guys (guys, because she refused to believe that they were dwarves), Oakenshield in particular, bristled at this comment. Man, if pissing people off were a sport, she’d be an Olympic champion. “But I think that I might know some stuff that you might’ve overlooked.”

“Pray do enlighten us,” drawled one that Quinn was almost certain had been trying to steal the cutlery, and had possibly succeeded.

“One: you’re all absolutely batshit crazy, and two: _dragons don’t exist.”_ Instant uproar. Quinn shrugged at Gandalf, as if to say, _it’s true, what did you expect?_ He drew his brows together in reply. He seemed to do that a lot.

“You do not know of that which you speak,” growled Oakenshield. Quinn glanced at him.

“Whatever.”

“You would spit upon the suffering of my people?” he demanded, enraged. “You would dare to say that the pain and death and destruction we face was false? You would _dare_ to suggest that my home – our home – that was so utterly ruined by fire remains whole and untouched?” Quinn shrugged again, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. She had a feeling she’d been stupid. Very, very stupid.

“I just said dragons don’t exist,” she grumbled.

“Have you ever seen one?”

“No, because they _don’t exist.”_

“And yet it still managed to set Erebor afire, kill most dwarves that once populated the mountain, and completely wipe out Dale.” Quinn blinked.

“...I'm going to go home,” she decided. "Goodbye." She had to repeat the laborious process of standing, but eventually managed to get to her feet. She pursed her lips, taking in her bearings. As far as she could tell, she was still in Home Paddock, although she’d gotten her dumb ass hopelessly lost. But perhaps God, or whoever the hell was up there, was smiling on her, because she recognised the remains of the old gum tree that’d been struck by lightning when she had been young. The resulting fire it had started had almost burned down the house and taken Quinn, who’d been alone at the time as her parents were off in town buying groceries, with it. She didn’t know what she was talking about when it came to fire, huh? Mentally, Quinn shook herself, visualising the landscape around them. The stump was there, to her left, and if the ledge was over there...

She moved slowly. Incredibly slowly. Actually, it was a small miracle she was upright at all, and the conk on her head she’d given herself wasn’t helping, but whatever. A snail could’ve probably beaten her. Quinn leaned her weight heavily on her crutch, which made her hips quite sore. She walked as soundlessly as she could, occasionally stopping to both rest and listen to her surroundings without the crunch of loose bits of rock beneath her feet overpowering her hearing.

They were following her. She could hear them, even though they were keeping a wary distance from her. They could’ve overtaken her easily and yet... they hadn’t. They could also not follow her, because she had no idea what to do with ten-plus strangers in the wee small hours of the morning, but whatever.

Secretly, Quinn felt rather like a giant idiot. Yes, they _had_ sort’ve broken into her house, but she’d seen the pain and the sorrow and, strangely (or perhaps not) the guilt on Oakenshield's face as Gandalf had told his story, which might’ve actually been a history rather than a children's fable as she had so presumed. As if he had been _there,_ which quite frankly ridiculous, because Gandalf had started his story with the words _over a hundred and seventy years ago..._ , and he didn’t look all that old. And what had she done but gone and been a smartarse, when Oakenshield had quite clearly been hurting. The idea itself was laughable, because, uh, _dragons,_ but still...

 _Still what?_ Said the Voice of Fucking Her Over, also known as her conscience.

Still, she’d been a bitch, and she should probably apologise for it. And slapping him. Actually, never mind, she wasn’t going to apologise for slapping him. He'd had it coming.

Quinn paused again, peeking surreptitiously over her shoulder. Apart from the brunet she thought to be Fíli's brother, who chattered incessantly, the... oh fucking _fine,_ the _dwarves_ walked in absolute silence and in perfect formation. Oakenshield at the front, Fíli, Dwalin and Fíli’s brother behind him, and behind _them_ she could see the weird hat belonging to the guy who’d saved her, and a rather fat... _dwarf,_ who's rotundness could be seen even with three ranks in from of him. Gandalf was off doing fuck-knew-what in the trees.

Realising she was staring, Quinn faced forward again and set off a mite faster than she had been. Which was a stupid thing to do. Unable to handle the extra movement, Quinn's knees buckled as she took another step, sending her tumbling to the ground. She swore, long and viciously, unable to do anything but kneel and breathe heavily. Behind her, the heavy footsteps and the clanking drew to a halt.

“Are you alright, miss?” someone asked.

“Yes.” Quinn tried to rise and failed. “No. _Fuck.”_ Fuck fuck fuck _fuck._ Quinn smacked her balled fist into the flesh of her thigh. “Fucking, _fucking_ God _._ Ah!” her knees began to cramp. “No, this bullshit. Absolute, fucking, _bullshit._ Rutting, goddamn motherfucking piece of shit. I cannot _fucking believe this.”_ She continued like this for several seconds, until someone cleared their throat.

“Miss Ito, what ails you?” It was a different voice this time. Quite an old voice, Quinn thought. Welsh, maybe. Or some weird English country accent. She didn’t fucking know anymore. Quinn didn’t reply, instead continuing to swear on and on.

“Burglar,” said Oakenshield in his deep voice that thrummed with undercurrents of power. “You were asked a question, so answer it. Or is that not the custom in these parts?”

“No, fuck off. Fuck _off._ Do you _think_ I’m alright? Or is it _custom_ wherever the fuck you come from for people who have trouble walking to just collapse in the middle of the road and not get up again? No, fuck this, I’ll go home later. Gimme, like, half an hour. _Fuck.”_ She planted her hands on the ground, pushing herself out of the kneel and onto the ground, slowly swivelling herself around to face him – to face _them._ Quinn suddenly felt very, very small. Her temple throbbed dully.

“So – fuck, I can’t believe I’m saying this – you want me to be a burglar for you, huh?” she peered up them. “That sounds illegal. Tell me more.” Part of her felt bad for leading them on, because there was no way in fuck that she would go anywhere with these guys, but it would help to pass the time before she could stand and get back home and lock all the doors and hide in the broom cupboard.

“That all depends,” said Gandalf, who had somehow appeared right next to her. Quinn started. “Would you call it a crime to steal back what was unlawfully taken from you in the first instance?” She blinked.

“Whatever happens, I’m not stealing back the mountain,” she told him, though she looked at the dwarves as she spoke. “Reason being, I highly doubt it would fit in my pocket.” There were a few grins here and there, but Oakenshield remained unmoved, and even scowled a bit. Right. “That was a joke,” she added, because this guy seemed like the kind of pissy fucker that would take everything at face value.

…Unlike her, because she was the kind of pissy fucker who _didn't._ He seemed to relax minutely. “Why should I help you, anyway?”

“"You will be richly rewarded,” said a voice that might’ve belonged to Balin, although she couldn’t see him.

“Yeah?”

“One fourteenth share of the treasure kept within Erebor, should you choose to accept our offer.” That was Oakenshield. To her surprise, he sat, crossing his legs. A few other followed suite, and then more, until the whole lot of them were sitting three metres away from her, inexplicably spread out in a ragged line instead of the uniform ranks they'd been in. “I would have our healer examine you when we return to your dwelling, if you permit it.” Oh, the sheer _arrogance_ in that alone made Quinn want to refuse him out of pure spite. But, on the other hand, she didn’t want to drive with a possible concussion, so that was that. _And_ he hadn't, just, straight straight up told her that his healer would examine her. He'd asked. Sort of.

“Sure.” _Bold of you to assume that I'm going to let you back in my house,_ she added silently. Beside her, Gandalf snorted. She side-eyed him sullenly, which only prompted him to wink at her.

The fuck? The actual _fuck?_ Why were old men with grandfatherly twinkles in their eyes winking at her? Why? Why did it have to be _her?_

“Yeah, okay, so I get some cash. Yay me. What would I be stealing?”

“I’m afraid that’ll remain strictly confidential until we reach the mountain. Runs less of a risk to both you and us, should you be caught. Sorry, lass,” Balin replied. Quinn blinked rapidly, trying to compute that.

“Yeah- wait, captured? By who? Er, whom?” Madmen, she contented telling herself. Didn’t have three marbles between them. Gandalf snorted again, and so she presented her middle finger to him.

“Oh, you know,” Balin said in an off-hand manner. “Orcs, elves. The odd slaver trying to make some quick coin.”

“That would be, if I'm not mistaken, my supposed kin, some gnomes, and some people doing stuff that’s been deemed outlawed by pretty much the whole world for the last, like, three hundred years?” Quinn snorted. _Shut up shut up shut up_ she screamed in her head, because yeah, maybe deep down she _was_ a coward and feared repercussion. “Be serious, please.”

There was a thundering silence, broken only by the wind whistling around them.

“I think, perhaps, this would be a good time to broach the subject,” Gandalf said carefully. Solemnly. “You see, we are not _from_ this world.”

Or, not quite, he explained. Something involving magic and probably Gandalf had gone awry, opening a portal both several thousand years and kilometres away from Floating Teeth. When he finished, all Quinn said was, “Prove it.”

Immediately, several coin pouches were withdrawn from pockets, their contents emptied onto the ground, someone took out a strange tooth on a string, and a stone with... runes, maybe, on it was produced.

“You’re part of a historical re-enactment group who’s really into the re-enactment,” she told the coin-bearers, “it’s a tooth from an incredibly large and probably wild dog,” she said to the tooth on the string, “and... actually, this is cool. Can I look at it?” Wordlessly, Fíli’s brother dropped the rock into her palm, its surface cool and smooth against her callused fingers. Quinn peered at the runes on them, wishing she had her glasses. They were unlike any she had seen before, but she found, if she tilted her head and squinted in a certain way, she could read it, which in of itself was a small miracle. What was written was... beautiful, although it was only three words. Sort of. _Hearth (the fire of the home where the parent [mother] makes the food and where the family dwells in peace). Belonging (You will always have a place in my heart, soul of my soul.) Motherlove._

 _…_ It probably sounded more succinct in the original language.

“That’s...” _Nice. Lovely. Heartwarming. Heartbreaking._ “Really cool. What is it?”

“A promise-stone. To my mother. To remind me to come home.” He pocketed it.

“Thanks. Seriously. Thank you. Wait- shit, what's your name?”

“Kíli,” he answered, and gave her a lopsided grin. Oh she was going to protect this tall child at all costs.

“Sweet. Okay.” She looked around. “The promise-stone is one in your favour. Anything _else_ you have to convince me that you’re not a bunch of total lunatics all sharing a hallucination?” Slowly, Gandalf withdrew something from his voluminous sleeve. Two somethings. He held them up for all to see: a key, oddly square and blocky, and...

“A map?” Quinn asked, puzzled. Gandalf nodded, though his gaze was firmly riveted on Oakenshield. He took it, spread the map over a roughly even patch of grass and weighed the cornerstone with some random rocks lying round. Interested despite herself, Quinn shuffled closer, studying the upside-down map.

And... Quinn believed them. Believed every goddamn word they told her, when she saw the reverence with which Oakenshield stroked the single, solitary peak labelled _The Lonely Mountain._

“Where did you get this?” he demanded, and Quinn might’ve imagined it, but his voice sounded just a tiny bit rougher than usual.

“Your father, Thráin, gave it to me for safekeeping,” Gandalf replied, cool voice as unruffled as ever. “It is yours now.”

“If... I decided to accept,” Quinn said slowly, breaking the frosty quiet that had settled over the group, “I just want to know one thing: if I’m a burglar, who am I meant to be stealing from?” In the back of her mind, Quinn wondered what was possessing her to ask these questions. She’d passed simple curiosity long ago and was heading fast towards all but begging for information.

“Why, that would be Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age,” the one with the weird hat informed her cheerfully. Quinn’ brow wrinkled.

“The dragon?”

“Aye.”

“Yeah, right. Gotcha.” Quinn stretched her arms. “Alright, I’m good. Let’s head off, shall we?” As the dwarves began to stand, re-forming their ranks, she bent her legs experimentally, pumping her fist in quiet triumph when her limbs responded in due manner, then drew them close to her body. Bracing one hand on her crutch and the other on the ground behind her, she pushed herself forward onto her knees, then wrapped both hands around the grip on the crutch, straining upward. Nothing happened. Quinn gritted her teeth, rocked back on her heels, then used the momentum to try and get upright. Still nothing.

“Do you need help?” Kíli asked from where he still sat sprawled on the ground, the last to rise. Quinn nodded gratefully. He jumped, sauntering over and offering her a wiry forearm. Quinn transferred the crutch into the hand furthest from Kíli, then wrapped her own arm around his. He lifted her up with apparent ease, grinning. As soon as Quinn’s feet touched the ground, she swept the crutch in front of her and planted it there, leaning heavily on it as she locked her knees.

“Thanks,” she told him, breathing heavily. “Hang on, chuck me that stick, would ya?” Dutifully, Kíli passed her the one she pointed. She gripped it thoughtfully, turning it this way and that. It was slightly higher than her hip, with an angled bit that would suit well as a handle. It would do.

“Thanks,” she repeated. “‘Kay, let's go.”

Fuck, she was insane. Why the fuck was she bringing them back to her house? Fuckin’ _God_. But she very well couldn’t just leave them outside. It would be... rude, or something. Alright. Maybe she could get the healer to check out her head, then pretend to go check on something outside, jump on the quad bike, and drive the fuck away. It was – she checked her watch – quarter to five, and one of Clancy’s mums, Clara, had told her only a week ago that should she ever need to talk, should she ever need help, her door would always be open. Also... she ran through what she’d seen as she’d buggered off. The only car around had been her ute, which meant that she’d be able to lose them in the fifteen-odd kilometres it was to Clara and Jemima's house, with any luck. Alright. _Alright._ She had a plan. Then she could call the police from their landline. Why the fuck had Angel thought it a good idea to postpone installing the landline at Floating Teeth? Some things were beyond her.

She nearly cried with relief as the house came into view over Ghost Hill, where her maternal grandmother and great-grandparents were buried. Nobody was quite sure where, or even who, her grandfather was. By all accounts, he'd fucked off when her grandmother, Ito Yumi, was eight months pregnant with Quinn's mum and her twin sister, Auntie Imogen, and they’d heard neither hide nor hair of him since. Which was probably a good thing. So, her obaachan had kept her maiden name, Ito, and her mum had too, sorta.

Blackie began to kick up a racket as she unlatched the gate, but a sharp whistle from Quinn had him quiet down, although she could hear him whining behind the door. As she entered inside, she quietly slipped the keys of her quad bike into the pocket of her hoodie, then sat herself down heavily on the chair in the corner. Blackie jumped up onto her lap, trying to lick the cut on the side of her head until Quinn pushed him off onto the carpet. She made to rise and put a log on the dying fire, but sagged back immediately. Too much effort, she decided. Whatever. She’d just die of hypothermia, right here on this incredibly uncomfortable chair, and then she could fuck off to heaven or hell or something and not have to stand up. God, she was a genius. Idly, she picked up a small crystal vase that belonged to Sid, turning it this way and that as the light was contorted within it. Yeah, looking at pretty things was _so_ much better than standing up. She should do it more often.

“Burglar?” someone said next to her. Quinn swore, and in one movement turned and pelted the vase at whoever had spoken. Quite calmly, he caught it in one hand. She blinked, then focused on the grey-haired dwarf in front of her, holding what looked to be an old-fashioned ear-trumpet to his ear.

“Shit. Fuck. Sorry, you startled me. Are you alright? Fuck. I’m really sorry.”

“No harm done,” he replied calmly. Quinn gave him an apologetic half-smile. “I’m the healer, Óin. Thorin sent me to check up on you. He mentioned that you seemed to have an abrasion upon the side of your head.” Óin handed her the vase, and Quinn replaced it, shamefaced.

“Yeah. Um, look, I'm really sorry-"

“It’s of no matter,” he interrupted. Gently, he pressed two fingers to the cut. She jerked her head back involuntarily, hissing in pain. “I assume this is the injury that he spoke of?” Quinn gave him a deadpan look.

“What do you think?” she muttered.

“I’m thinking, aye, it is. Remove your hat now. I need to apply a salve.” Quinn complied with as much grace as she could muster, tugging the beanie off and running her fingers over the tear, frowning. Óin sucked in a breath, eyes widening.

“It’s not _that_ bad, surely.”

“Your hair, Burglar,” he whispered, sounding properly horrified. “What happened to it? Did you dishonour your family in some way?”

“What? Nah, it started to fall out, so I shaved it off. No dramas.” It wasn’t like she was _bald_ or anything – indeed, in the six weeks since her last round of chemo, Quinn thought that her hair had grown back admirably well.

“Do you know why such a travesty occurred?”

“I wouldn’t call it a _travesty_ , as such, but yeah, I do. Um.” She gave him a dazzling grin, doing finger guns. “Just another perk of chemo.” At Óin's confused head-tilt, she elaborated. “A treatment for cancer. Other side-effects include spewing your guts up and feeling like you want to die. It’s not fun.”

“And does it work?” he asked, curiosity flooding his tone. Quinn shrugged.

“Sometimes.” Óin began to apply what she assumed was the salve. It stung sharply for a few seconds, the pain receded, leaving a pleasant coolness in its wake.

“Only sometimes?”

“Yup. It’s that or have radiation therapy, which isn’t great for you, because it’s like concentrated sunlight, or get an op, but that didn’t work because it’s stuck itself in my brain. There are some other cures out there, but they’re still in trial stage and we can’t get access to them out here because it’s so remote. They’re too expensive to import, anyways.” Óin seemed to read between the lines of what she was saying, for a terrible sorrow settled over his face.

“I am sorry, lass,” he said quietly. “Cancer is just as much a monster as the beast Smaug, and no less greedy. I take it that means you won’t be joining the Company?” The Company, Quinn remembered, was what Gandalf had introduced Oakenshield as the leader of. She sighed deeply.

“No, I don’t think I will.” She snorted softly. “I mean, you saw me tonight, right? I can’t walk long distances, crutches or no.” A thought suddenly occurred to her. “D’ya reckon I got a concussion?” He examined her closely.

“No concussion,” he said finally. “Although I would advise you to rest.” He nodded his head. “By your leave, miss.”

Quinn watched him move away, watched him regroup with a stout, red-haired dwarf, and felt a sudden, fierce longing for Clancy to be alive once more, so she could experience that kind of kinship again. The fire flickered, landing on Oakenshield's face oddly from where he leaned against the mantelpiece, staring deep into the flames. She wondered what he was thinking about, then felt a sudden pang of compassion for the man – uh, dwarf – who had lost so much to fire.

Then they began to sing. Soft it was, and so full of heartache that Quinn felt quite moved. Oakenshield led it, and by fucking God he was _good_. So, so good. And the rest of the dwarves were doing a sort of acapella that was really working for them. And so it came about, that, quite without meaning to, Quinn fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave comments and kudos I crave attention lmao

**Author's Note:**

> ok. uh. hi guys? yeah. i made the mistake (or not) of watching the hobbit about a month ago, and started rewriting this fic. uhhhhh sorry if you're an acafam person wondering why the hell I've just posted two things NOT pertaining to that story. I'm trying. Sorry. This is sparking FAR more joy than of my other fics are atm so I decided to roll with it. seeya.  
> (fun fact: floating teeth home paddock and house is based heavily off my grandmother's home in rural queensland, because i was waaaayyyyyyy too lazy to think up something by myself. also, to those concerned that the town and shire of Apricot may have an unrealistic name; there is literally a rural qld town called Banana. No, I'm not joking. Go look it up.)


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